


As It Began

by OnTheRoadSoFar



Series: As It Began [4]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheRoadSoFar/pseuds/OnTheRoadSoFar
Summary: 1971, pre-fame series about the strong bond formed between four London graduates also known as Queen, and how that special bond, for Freddie and John, slowly blossoms into something more.Precious baby John Deacon's POV.





	As It Began

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled at lot with this chapter, and I don't know why! I hope you like it - do leave a comment telling me your favourite part. And get yourself ready for fluffy/smutty Deacury galore!

There was a hard knock on the door. Then another. 

John had been suspended a few minutes in that ethereal state between wakefulness and sleep where strange, inverted worlds begin to take form before the inner vision while the ears still dutifully absorb the sounds of the physical realm. The first knock had been the distant thumping of a nail being fastened to a plank in a treehouse hidden under the shadowy boughs of an oak tree, but the second one was definitely someone hammering on John’s front door. From his spot on the couch, his feet popped up on the armrest and his head resting on an obstinate pillow in the shape of a dirty t-shirt, John managed to call “just a second” in a dry, croaky voice which seemed to put an end to the banging. He turned around on his back and sat up slowly. When had he fallen asleep? What time was it? Which day of the week? It took all of two minutes before he was fully conscious – and then everything that had happened the past couple of days came back to him in vivid flashes of silk and rain and saliva. It all immediately made John long for the compassionate seclusion of a deep slumber. Who the heck was calling on him? Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Was it that irritable neighbor of his who always complained about the noise with the woolly phrase “you kids call that screeching music”? No, it couldn’t be him – the band hadn’t gotten together at John’s place for weeks. The flat was too small. And John much preferred practice to take place somewhere, anywhere, else. He never could feel quite at ease when other people – even those closest to him, including his own family – commented on or even looked at his stuff, his furniture and pictures and odd knick-knacks strewn about the tiny rooms. The whole experience was too intimate, somehow. Like someone opening a drawer from which all his private thoughts and feelings leaped, leaving him stripped to the core and open for public discussion. Leaving him vulnerable. Not that either Brian, Roger or Freddie had ever overstepped John’s boundaries in that regard. Hell, he didn’t even know what those boundaries were – just that there were things he never really talked about or shared with the other members of the band. Not because they were secrets, but because they were… Insignificant. Irrelevant. Better left unexplored. In return, he never asked any of them questions about their past, their families. He was more than willing to listen, in fact he was quite good at that, but the conversation, if personal, had to be instigated by the other person or else it wasn’t going to happen at all, and John would much rather talk about music or the band or even current issues if given the opportunity. 

John dragged his legs off the edge of the couch and rubbed his temples with two fingers. The sun seemed to have disappeared from the sky and left the room in almost complete darkness except from the faint shafts of street light filtering aimlessly through the blinds. John thought the darkness meant that more rain was coming, but a quick glance at the clock radio on the kitchen counter informed him that the sun had simply set, and that it was five minutes to seven. John had slept all afternoon and well into the evening. His mouth felt like a desert, and he swallowed hard a couple of times before getting up and, walking a beeline to the fridge, taking a sip of an open carton of orange juice. It was bitter and had an odd aftertaste of dirt, and it should probably have been thrown out days ago. John coughed meekly and put it back. He didn’t bother turning the lights on before answering the door. 

“Hey, man. You alright?” It was Roger, mild traces of concern discernable in his pale, gentle features. John watched as his friend soon frowned and looked past John into the darkness beyond the threshold.

“You got a migraine or something,” he went on. 

John cleared his throat and tried to sound unaffected. By what, he was not sure. 

“No, no, not at all. I just… Fell asleep, and, and it was dark when I woke up. Which was about two minutes ago.”

“I woke you up?”

“Yes, but never mind that. Had to get up anyway. Don’t even know why I was sleeping, really.” John chuckled awkwardly. 

“Well, you’ve had a long week. We all have,” Roger observed. “Brian’s been trying to call you, but I think there might be something wrong with your phone.” John flinched ever so slightly by the mentioning of that particular device. Roger didn’t seem to notice before he went on: “Bri asked me to tell you that he got the studio at school for practice tomorrow, so we’ll meet up there at two instead of his place.”

“Oh. That’s great.”

“Yeah, really great. Anyway, I’ve got to run.” Right. The date. “I just came by to tell you that. Get some coffee, alright, man. See you tomorrow, Deacy.” 

“See you, Roger.”

Roger had already turned around and was heading for the stairs when he suddenly stopped with a loud “oh, right, I almost forgot”. 

John pushed the door back open and looked at his friend, encompassed as he was by the grey-green light of the narrow hallway. His hair glowed a deep, warm yellow and framed his face like a wreath of brittle rye. John blinked. His eyes were still a little dry and itchy from… What, sleeping? Or had he been… Had he been crying? 

Roger’s right hand disappeared into the depths of his coat pocket before eventually reappearing, now containing a small, white, flat rectangle in a light grip. 

“Freddie asked me to give you this. It’s some lyrics he wants you to look at for tomorrow, I think. Alright, bye.”

Roger was off in a flash, and John found himself left clumsily standing on the landing, with the doorknob in one hand and a wrinkled envelope in the other, dumbfounded and immovable. He heard the front door slammed shut a few floors below before a heavy, dusty silence enwrapped him once more. Afterwards, he didn’t even remember reentering the flat or closing the door again. He didn’t remember sitting back down on the couch, or opening and reading the note, so decorously folded three times and containing a few, uneven lines in Freddie’s hurried hand. 

“John,  
I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot I have a dinner thing at my parents’ tonight. I tried calling you, but your phone’s off the hook.  
I’ll just see you tomorrow at practice, alright?  
Freddie.”

John read the note sixteen times. Then he balled it up and threw it away. He never did turn the lights back on that night because he went straight back to sleep within minutes, the taste of the orange juice making way for something much more bitter and much harder to swallow. He dreamt that he was in a treehouse, a treehouse similar to the one in his aunt’s back garden in which he had spent countless childhood hours writing stories, on yellow paper napkins, about dogs and adventures and unlikely friendships. In his dream, the little, woody window facing the main house was barred, until it suddenly wasn’t, and through it, John saw the distant shores of some tropical island, engulfed in azure waters and rugged cliffs, shimmering gold and honey and mauve underneath an unforgiving midday sun. In a heartbeat, John was entering a solitary hut on the island, the warm, loose sand tingling his bare feet as he walked the few outdoor steps to the first floor. Surrounded by the lush, heavy leaves of palm trees, he stepped inside a room the size of his own flat, with bamboo blinds and a buzzing, useless fan spinning monotonously in the middle of the ceiling. On the bed, stretched to his full length and wearing nothing but underwear and a crimson, unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt, was Freddie, his eyes closed and his lips baring a soft, mysterious smile. He took no notice of John. John was invisible. By a timber table to the right sat a middle-aged man. He and Freddie were talking casually about Freddie’s career and what he had to do if he wanted to make it as a solo artist. He was offering Freddie advice when John suddenly found himself materialized next to his friend on the flowery bedspread, his fingers tracing ghostly webs on Freddie’s exposed arm. Freddie’s skin was unexpectedly cool, and John wanted to tell him so, but neither Freddie nor the other man could hear him. He tried opening his mouth, but no sound came out. And just like that, a shrill, familiar voice calling from the past broke the serenity of the moment, and commanded John to “stop fooling around up there and come have his tea”. He was in the treehouse again, the air and atmosphere of the hut still pulsing through his veins as he climbed the endless steps towards the dry grass below. 

“Oh, good, you’re here! You got the message.” Brian, as always, sounded rested and ready for the day’s rehearsal. He offered John a hearty smile, and John returned it, a little relieved that is was still just the two of them there. It was another wintry day in London, and the walk from the tube station had turned his hands and feet quite numb. The cool air had helped clear his head a bit, too, all memories of the night’s balmy beach breezes almost completely erased. 

“Freddie and Roger are running a bit late, but I thought you and I might start putting our own stuff up in the meantime.”

“Sure, yeah. Let’s.”

They walked a couple of hundred meters to a back entrance leading to a vast, somewhat crowded hallway from which a series of smaller, emptier ones extended. At the third one of these they took a turn to the left, and Brian fumbled a few seconds with a large bundle of keys before finding the right one and pushing the first door on the right open, its lengthy squeak echoing dramatically down the corridor. 

Inside was one of John’s favorite rooms. Sizable and messy, it contained everything from guitars and basses to flutes, saxophones and even a harp. It had amplifiers, mics and drum risers as well as gear for recording and mixing. There were two large, south-facing windows looking out onto a quiet street, stacks of chairs in each corner and a ton of note sheets in neat piles on the grand piano in the middle of the black-and-white checkered floor. It was heaven for anyone with music in their veins, whether that someone wanted to jam with a couple mates every other weekend or dreamed of headlining famous stadiums around the world. John didn’t really know where on that scale he fitted – he hadn’t given his own future relationship with music that much thought yet. For now, he was just happy to finally have found a band whose members actually liked his particular sound – a sound which he somehow only seemed able to produce when it was Freddie, Brian and Roger he was playing with. 

Brian didn’t lock the door after them as they entered. 

“I’ll just leave open till they get here,” he said. The room he and John now found themselves in was occupied most afternoons of the week by music students, but Brian had a friend among the university’s undergraduate professors and had been granted special access twice or sometimes three times a month to make use of the studio for a few hours, granted that the four of them – except Roger, of course – brought their own instruments and that Brian helped out with the private tutoring of a couple of first-year math scholars the last three weeks before their finals. John secretly thought it was kind of cool that Brian had secured for them a special arrangement like that. He also found Brian’ academic talents quite impressive – was there anything the guy couldn’t do? 

“I can’t move this thing, Deacy, give me a hand?”

John turned around and puffed a short laugh at Brian, arms stretched, knees bended and hair in his face, trying to move the massive harp off of its plateau.

“What do you need that for? Please tell me Freddie didn’t write a song that has a harp in it.”

“Thank god, no. But you never know, though, do you,” Brian answered, and John smiled and shook his head. 

“You really, really don’t.” As he helped Brian with the harp – he needed the plateau it was standing on for something or other – John took pride in having been able to mention Freddie’s name without flinching or stammering or blushing or anything like that. For some reason, the famililarity of the moment and the anticipation of playing, in a room with great acoustics even, had calmed him down tremendously, and he hardly registered when the door flung open and the rest of Queen finally made their fashionably tardy appearance. John was setting up his bass absentmindedly when from behind, Roger slapped him good-naturedly on the back with both hands and a brief “hey, Deacy” and hastily moved on in the direction of Brian who was now cross-legged on the floor surrounded by power cords and curls. John turned around then and met Freddie’s eyes, managing an honest, though somewhat meek, smile which he very much hoped would reach his eyes and not just his lips. It must have done so, because Freddie, still by the door, smiled back at him, an odd, uncomfortable tension in his shoulders seemingly vanishing and making way for an arm swung theatrically in front of him in one long, familiar motion. 

“I’m sorry we’re late, dears, but Roger took forty-five minutes in the shower.”

“Yeah, well, only because you’d used all the hot water, and I had to wait thirty minutes for it warm up again,” Roger defended himself from the other end of the room.

“Details, details,” Freddie mumbled, brushing the protest aside with a last wave of his hand.

“And it’s not like you didn’t have the entire morning and the first half of the afternoon to wash, comb and blow your pretty manes,” Brian snorted, shaking his head in friendly disbelief.

“You really want to talk hair maintenance, Bri,” Roger asked with raised eyebrows. “Because we’re not the ones using three – that’s right, Deacy, not one or two, but three – different after-shower care and/or styling products, now, are we?”

“For your information, Rog, I stopped using hair spray over a month ago,” was all Brian could say. John giggled, still busy fidgeting with his bass. 

Roger frowned. “Really? Why?”

“Because it damages the ends. With extended use.” 

Roger shot a worried glace at Freddie who curled his lips and shook his head slowly in reply. 

“Are you sure,” Roger mouthed, looking positively concerned. 

Freddie closed his eyes and shrugged, and then turned around quickly to get his stuff ready. Roger started crying “Freddie”, emphasizing that last syllable greatly. John just kept on smiling. 

Practice went well. Daylight had all but faded by the time they’d gone through the entire new set of songs including both Roger’s and Freddie’s latest additions. The latter was quite challenging and would definitely need some polishing before they were ready to perform it live, but today was a start, a good start. They all helped each other lock up and load the van, and apparently the others had agreed yesterday to go check out a newly opened record store uptown before it closed for the night.

“You’re coming, too, aren’t you, Deacy,” Brian stated rather than asked as he got into the passenger’s seat, Roger taking the wheel. 

“Um, thanks, but no thanks. I’d like to, but there’s this paper I should have started working on, like, three days ago, and I really should go home and get to it. Can’t postpone any longer, I’m afraid.”

Brian nodded understandingly, while Roger protested “can’t it wait a couple of hours”.

“I’m afraid not. But you guys have fun.”

“Sure thing, Deacy. I’ll call you about the next meet-up.”

“Thanks, Brian. Alright, see you guys.” John smiled warmly, making sure he met the eyes of all three of his friends before stuffing his hands into his pockets, turning around and walking in the opposite direction. At the first chance he got, he took a left turn, walking east towards the station. The air was crisp and clear, and a mild frost draped the houses and the streets in a silvery dew still unspoiled by darkness. The clouds had all blown away during the afternoon and exposed a by now grey-blue sky overhead in the growing twilight. Behind him, the last streaks of red and gold lit up the horizon beyond the old houses. John consciously breathed in deeply and filled his lungs with the comforting smell of London in winter. The roads were busy, but fewer people were walking, probably due to the cold, so John found himself able to look up without having to worry too much about bumping into someone. The moon was close to full, the brightness of its white disc almost painful to look at. John’s gaze traced the puffy, lingering line trailing a tiny airplane high up in the troposphere, wondering where that plane was going, and if he would ever go there, too. Just as he was lost in the deepest of thoughts, someone came soundlessly up from behind and linked their arm to John’s. Startled dizzy, he turned his head and saw Freddie walking briskly beside him, chin up and looking ahead, as if he had been there the whole time. 

“My god, Freddie. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, darling. So sorry. But you were so far away, you would have been startled no matter how I’d approached you.” He gave John’s arm a gentle squeeze, and already the air seemed a lot less icy. 

“I thought you were checking out that new store,” John asked, still gaping at Freddie’s profile. 

“I changed my mind.” Freddie finally turned his head and stole a quick look at John, his eyes wide and expectant. “Walk me home?”

“Walk? That’s, that’s, like, an hour and forty-five minutes.”

“I don’t mind,” Freddie shrugged. 

John felt a tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sure. Yeah. Let’s walk.”

And they did. Arm in arm and quietly at first. But it was a good kind of quiet, John noticed. There was, surprisingly enough, no awkwardness or unpleasantness between them. Freddie’s body felt warm against his. Warm and safe. The moon followed them overhead like a blessing. Not unexpectedly, it was Freddie who at last broke the silence.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night, about cancelling on you at the last minute.” An ever so slightly nervous tremor vibrated in his throat as he spoke. 

“That’s okay, Fred.”

“I really did forget about that family dinner, I promise.”

“I know.”

“You do? Because I was afraid you’d think…”

“I didn’t. I don’t.”

“Good.” He smiled tenderly at John, his lips pressed closely together. He seemed to ponder the words that came next, swallowing a few times before continuing. 

“About… That, John. You know, the elephant, our elephant, in the room. Or in the street, in this case. Which, I suppose, wouldn’t pose that much of a problem, really, only the cars wouldn’t be-“

“Freddie.”

“Sorry. I’m stalling.”

John sighed. “Freddie, we don’t have to talk about-“

“Yes, John, we most certainly do.” 

“Okay, fine.” They had instinctively slowed down their pace by now. With his free hand, Freddie gave John’s arm a light pat. Even through the armored layers of shirts, sweater and coat, John still felt his skin tingle with pleasure at the touch.

Freddie took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“You said that already.”

“No, I’m sorry about yesterday afternoon and the night before.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. It was as if some invisible knot had been tied around his chest. A heavy weight seemed to pushed him down from above. 

So Freddie did regret kissing him. Did regret the… Things they’d done together. John wished with his whole being that he was a thousand miles away and never coming back.

“You alright, John? See, this is… This is why I’ve felt so horrible. You have every right to be mad at me, and-“

“Mad at you,” John managed to ask. 

“Yes, mad at me,” Freddie cried.

“Why would I… Why would I be mad at you?”

“Well, because… Because what I did was very wrong.”

“Which part of it was wrong?” John was getting frustrated – he honestly had no idea what Freddie was yammering about.

“John.” Freddie suddenly sounded more serious than John had ever heard before. “I didn’t know you were a virgin. I shouldn’t have assumed that you weren’t, that was very wrong and very ignorant of me. Really, it was. Had I know, I swear, John, I would never had done… That.”

“Kissed me?”

“No, not kissed you, silly.” He lowered his voice before he went on. “Forced a blow job on you or made you have phone sex with me.”

John shot his friend a surprised look, his mouth half-open, his head shaking involuntarily in disbelief. “Forced? Made me? Freddie, stop, alright, just stop. I’m not five years old! Would you quit treating me like a child, for god’s sake?”

John didn’t know if it was him or Freddie who was startled the most at the passionate shudder of John’s voice and the weight of his statement. All he knew was that Freddie instinctively pulled his arm to himself and stopped in the middle of the street, his face the living manifestation of hurt. John regretted his choice of words instantly, but there was no taking them back now. The two of them had to get through this. 

Freddie stuttered, his breath forming lively clouds of hot air with every uttered sound and syllable. His eyes were wide open and wet. “John, I wouldn’t… I mean, I never, ever intended to-“

“I know, Freddie. I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, it’s just… You’ve been… You been so good to me, and you’re such a good friend. I don’t know how I ever got by before I met you, honestly, but you… Just, don’t pin everything on yourself. I know I’m shy and quiet and come off as vulnerable or whatever, and perhaps I really am all those things, but… I know what I’m doing. I can make my own decisions.”

John’s words seemed to calm Freddie down somewhat, but he still looked so upset that John felt his gaze flash to the ground to avoid looking into those beautiful, dark eyes. He never intended to be the one to fill them with pain or tears. 

“I know you can,” Freddie spoke softly. 

“And you didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do, alright?”

“Alright.”

Silence.

“Fred, shouldn’t we keep walking? I can’t feel my feet.”

Freddie smiled again as John silently held out his arm for him to take. The streets were cloaked in nightfall by now, and the lights from the shop windows boasting of things neither of them could afford to buy shone on their frozen cheeks, red noses and glossy eyes. Freddie snuffled and cleared his throat.

“Still,” he said.

“Still what,” John asked back. 

“Although I don’t regret doing what we did, because let’s be honest, it was all so fucking hot,” – John could not help giggling at the adept description as well as nod approvingly – “I still feel sort of bad that your first sexual experiences weren’t, you know. Actual sex.”

John spoke in hushed tones to avoid unwanted attention from passers-by. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘actual sex’?”

A laugh. “John Deacon! Well, I guess you literally wouldn’t know, now, would you, dearest.”

“I guess I wouldn’t, though I may have an inkling.” 

“Well, to start with, we would have to be in the same room, at the same time, together. And preferably I’d say we’d both get to actually finish as well.”

“So in a way,” John mused, “we did both of those scenarios, just not simultaneously.” 

“We really are horrible at this, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are,” John smiled. 

“But you know what that means, darling,” Freddie went on after a pause, an intriguing pitch now present in his breezy voice.

“What does it mean?”

“That there’s room for improvement, of course.”

John chuckled, a pleasant heat returning to his face. “Any particular strategy in mind?” He loved how freely he could talk like this around Freddie. 

“Oh, yes,” Freddie smirked, looking straight ahead. “Leave it to me, my dear.”

“Sounds… Risky.”

“You have no idea.”

They decided to go back to John’s place instead. After a quick stop at Freddie and Roger’s where Freddie needed to pick something up while John waited in the street, it was no more than a fifteen-minute walk to the flat. Almost two hours of walking and talking seemed to have left nothing unsaid between them. They kicked their shoes off by the door and threw their jackets across the back of the couch. Freddie made the first move and managed to almost knock John off his feet, pressing their bodies close together and kissing John sloppily on the mouth and neck in the middle of the room.

“God, I… Always forget… How. Small your flat is.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“No. Really, I’ve… Got a chair. In my ass.”

They broke apart to laugh at Freddie who had all but pushed the table, chairs and all, against the kitchen counter in his effort to pull John closer, hold him tighter. 

“I was kind of hoping to have something else up there tonight,” Freddie added, his face flushed dark and his breathing uneven. He had both of his arms wrapped greedily around John’s shoulders, his fingers tangled up in John’s loose, messy locks. Their eyes met, and much was said between them without using actual words. John leaned in and kissed Freddie’s swollen lips, a long, deep kiss that was more romantic than lustful, more meaningful than fun. Freddie let his hands slide down John’s chest before finding a waist to cling to. 

“Bed,” Freddie whispered, and John could only nod. He had no air left in his lungs for enunciations, only for keeping him from fainting.

They kissed the few steps to the bed, a queen sized mattress on the floor covering most of the end wall, before tumbling unto the covers, still clinging together, always clinging together. John never wanted to let go. Freddie’s fingers moved quickly, and within seconds John found that his shirt was being pulled off of his shoulders and warm hands were tracing invisible lines up and down his spine, grabbing hold of his hips, digging into the sensitive skin above the waistline veiled by the cold half-darkness of the room. John registered himself moaning loudly into Freddie’s mouth as Freddie wriggled out of his own shirt and their bare chests touched for the first time, hair against hair, rubbing, clamoring, bodies getting warmer.

It was all a complete mess of arms and legs and discarded clothes after that, and John lost his sense of space and time. When one of them eventually managed to form words again, John was on top of Freddie, their naked, sweaty bodies intertwined as Freddie took them both in his right hand, rubbing their hard, pulsing cocks together between gasps and groans and whimpers. His voice was deep and coarse when he pulled away from John’s throat.

“Pocket. Coat.”

“What?” John sounded embarrassingly desperate, his face crimson with arousal. 

“Fuuuuck. God, yes, yes. Oh, shit!“ John had started thrusting into Freddie’s fist, making his friend tremble all over, crying out in pleasure. 

“It’s in my coat pocket,” Freddie finally managed. “Need. To. Get it. Right now.”

He let go of their cocks with a final squeeze, and John ached pitifully at the lack of touch there. He was so hard that he was seeing stars. He just wanted to come all over Freddie right then and there, but Freddie begged him to stop moving.

“Not yet. You have to fuck me,” he whispered, lowering his head and finding a hard nipple on John’s heaving chest to suck on. He sucked and sucked until it hurt and John winced in pain and excitement, and then he rolled out from under him and darted towards the couch. John, standing on all four in the middle of the bed, turned his head slightly to admire the slender silhouette leaping across the carpet, with its bouncy hair gracing the broad, sculptured shoulders and its huge, erect dick piercing the heavy, musky atmosphere around them. John’s skin tingled all over. He wanted to scream from joy, but he was too breathless, too occupied with containing himself – oh, how he wanted to, needed to, lift his hand and finish himself off! Just a few, quick jerks and he would be flooding the sheets! 

“Freddie,” he gasped, yearned.

“Coming, coming. Oh, darling, you are gorgeous when you’re turned on,” he said, slapping John’s ass playfully, but with no little force. 

“Please, I need-,” John stammered. 

“I know, I know.” Freddie lay back down and pushed himself back into his previous position underneath John who stole a few chaste kisses in the process, licking Freddie’s lips and pressing their foreheads briefly together. 

Freddie screwed the lid off a small, blue jar. John watched as he dug his fingers into its transparent contents and spread it all over the palm of his hand by clenching and unclenching his fist. 

A hiss, a whine. Freddie had gripped John’s cock again and was now twisting his hand down its full length, rubbing the leaking tip with his thump as his hand came back up. He repeated the motion a few times, before letting go and dipping his fingers once more into the little, magical jar. John couldn’t contain himself then. He started grinding against Freddie, and Freddie let him, their sticky stomachs occasionally smacking together with a loud clasp that only had John moving faster, pushing harder, harder, harder. Freddie was sucking at his throat again, his hand suddenly disappearing somewhere where John’s gaze, his head thrown back, couldn’t follow, stroking John’s balls teasingly on its way there. John thought he would combust, explode, when Freddie’s other hand found its way to the small of John’s back, scratching the skin there with blunt nails and now and then moving down and slapping John’s ass sharply, hard – Freddie really had a thing for asses – and even, just once, moving a long, flexible finger down towards John’s hole and dapping it impishly. Just when they had found a carnal rhythm that was sure to push John over the edge before he knew it, Freddie grew suddenly quiet and tense, his eyes shut tight, his jaw clenched, his face contorted. John thought his friend was going to come, and his chest burned hot and proud at the mere thought, but then he suddenly let out a drawn-out hiss and raised both hands to try and push John gently away from him.

“There. Ready,” he breathed.

John looked at him, brows furrowed, sweat running down his flushed temples. 

“I’m ready for you,” Freddie repeated, glancing caringly, urgently, up at John and meeting his eyes with an expectant curve of the half-open mouth. 

“I want your big fucking cock in me.” Freddie gave John another push before scooting up on the pillow and spreading his legs and raising them as high up in the air as he could manage, grabbing the back of his knees in both hands.

And there it was, Freddie’s open, throbbing hole glistening before John, the smooth, dark balls dangling above it like a pair of massive, ripe plums. John felt an unfamiliarly aching desire spread from his beating heart, through the pit of his stomach and all the way to the tip of his swollen dick, clouding his vision momentarily and halting his movements. 

Freddie wanted him. All of him. Was begging for him. And he… He was ready. 

“Come on, darling, fuck me, fuck me like there’s no tomorrow, okay. Hey, look at me. It’s me, John.” A pause. “You can do it, just-.”

John smiled and leaned forward. He placed his hands on the mattress right under Freddie’s armpits and pushed into him, gradually, exploringly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, tears in his eyes. Yes, tears! Freddie was now gripping the sheets frantically, arching his back and groaning in primal satisfaction, and he was the most beautiful creature John had ever seen. Enraptured as he was with the sight before him, John didn’t even notice that his cock had been completely engulfed by Freddie – that he had pushed all the way into that special place, and now, frenzied by the warm, wet tightness of the pulsating muscles there, he twisted his hips upwards and felt his body shiver in response. Freddie cried out instantaneously.

“Oh, god, John! Yes! Right. There! Aaaaaaarh, yes, yes, yeeeeees.”

John could feel the heat reaching his balls, and he knew he was close. He started moving up, down, up, down. In, out. In. Out. Freddie yelled his name in between profanities and begged John not to stop. John didn’t, he thrusted and thrusted and thrusted, harder, faster, faster, slamming their balls together, whining with euphoric pleasure as his sensitive tip hit that mystic spot inside of Freddie again and again and again. 

And then he came, with the most powerful orgasm he had ever experienced, nearly passing out from endlessly shooting his come into Freddie, shooting, shooting, until it almost hurt, and he all but screamed his friend’s name, Freddie grabbing his own burning cock and instantly flooding their chests and his hand with all that he had.

So this was what it felt like. This was it at last! 

John pulled out carefully and fell unto his left side, his dead-weight arm falling effortlessly across Freddie’s heaving, hairy chest. John was hopelessly out of air and couldn’t open his eyes. His body had never felt so heavy in his entire life. There was no way he was ever moving again.

“John Richard Deacon,” Freddie eventually laughed, his breathing almost evened out by now, “are you fucking kidding me.” 

“Huh,” was all John could muster. 

“That. That was beyond epic.”

“Good?”

“Phenomenal!” Freddie turned his head and kissed John hard on the forehead. John was vaguely conscious of how hot and sweaty that had to feel. 

“John, dear,” Freddie chuckled, “you really need to do this more often, you’re completely out of breath.” His voice was soft and kind again, any traces of post-orgasm as good as vanished.

“Sure.” That answer earned John a hearty laugh from his friend who was now slowly getting up, leaving John shivering in the sudden chill of the little room. There was a draft coming from the window opposite; the wind must have picked up.

John was only half aware of Freddie getting paper towels in the bathroom and cleaning first himself and then John. He noticed the kitchen tap running briefly, before he once again felt a warm, familiar body climb under the covers and drape them across John as well. He relaxed completely, every part of him, body and soul, hidden, safe and sound, from the cold winter night beside the only person in the universe who really knew him. 

“You sleepy,” came a whispered question from the other pillow. 

His eyes still closed, John hummed in acquiescence. 

“Just go to sleep, darling.” 

But John didn’t want to, not quite yet. He fought against the exhaustion, the oblivion, slowly taking possession of him and opened his eyes. Freddie’s face was right there next to his, his dark eyes looking at John as if he was a newly found treasure chest bursting with pearls and gold. John pursed his lips and smiled, dead certain this time that it would reach his eyes, too. They kissed a little, quietly, affectionately. It was their first kiss of that particular kind. 

“But not our last,” John thought, and then he said out loud: “I’d say that wasn’t bad for a first time.”

“I’m so happy you feel that way, Deacy. Although…” 

“Although what?”

“You deserved… Everything, dear. Flowers. A limousine. Dinner at the Ritz. Summer night promenading by the river. Dancing under the stars. All of it, everything. I wish I could have given you everything.”

“But,” John protested, raising his head a little in surprise, “I wouldn’t have wanted any of that.”

“Why not?” Freddie sounded almost disheartened.

“Because… That’s, that’s not me. And it’s not about that. What you gave me was perfect, Freddie.”

“What, a two hour walk in the freezing cold and an invitation to your own flat?”

“No. No. A shimmering moonlight stroll in the city that I love, you talking about yourself, your family. Where you grew up. Asking me in return, with genuine, good-natured interest about my own background. Giving me the confidence I needed to open up. And then afterwards… What we did just now would have been amazing anywhere, because it’s not about the right place. It’s about the right person.”

Freddie stared at John as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. A solitary tear rolled from the inner corner of his eye, across the bridge of his nose, and disappeared in a sudden blinking of long, black lashes. 

“John.” A pause. “My sweetest John. You are too good for me.” They held onto each other’s hands under the covers. 

“Said nobody ever.”

“I’m saying it.”

John smiled and pressed their foreheads together, a gesture he was growing very fond of. Freddie’s bangs tingled his brow like soft, spring grass. 

“So tell me, what was your first time like?”

“I couldn’t say,” Freddie replied, closing his eyes at last. “I don’t remember ever having sex before tonight.”


End file.
